


Loud & Clear

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s11e19 The Chitters, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6898903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it is a little like TV, though, Dean thinks. Maybe there’s a moral here. Something he can learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loud & Clear

**Author's Note:**

> companion piece to [my 11x18 coda](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6491161)
> 
> as always, thanks to [cecilia](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/) for the beta <3

Dean is six when he first learns about Superman.

Sometimes, when his dad is gone or asleep, when he’s passed out drunk, when he drops them off with Bobby or with strangers -- sometimes, Dean gets to watch TV. Gets to spend hours and hours absorbing the same movies and cartoons the other kids his age are always talking about.

Sometimes, when John is awake, when he’s teaching Dean to hold a gun or wield a knife or clean a wound, Dean likes to imagine what it would be like to live in a world where Superman is real. Likes picturing how much better that world would be.

He knows Superman doesn’t actually exist, of course. He’s always known they’re stuck with this world where only the monsters are real, where the only heroes are ordinary people with no greater power than anyone else.

Still, when Dean is nine, he dresses as Superman and jumps off a shed. He knows he can’t fly, but he’s learned how to take hard landings. For those few seconds before he hits the ground, at least he can pretend.

When Dean is thirty-seven, he meets Cesar and Jesse. It feels a little like he’s just met Superman. There’s even the reveal of their not-so-secret identities: Husbands. Not brothers.

Once he knows, he wonders how he didn’t see it. They love each other. They’re _in love_ with each other.

They don’t say it. It isn’t the in-your-face kind of love Dean has grown used to seeing on TV over the past thirty-odd years. There are no dramatic confessions, no candlelight dinners, no flowers and chocolates. Those things just don’t have a place here in their messy, smelly, twice-the-fear-of-getting-ganked reality.

But he can see it anyway. He sees it in the way they interact, the way it informs every movement, every decision. He sees it in the way they look at each other. The way Cesar puts his hand on Jesse’s shoulder as they stand in front of the pyre. The way Jesse smiles at Cesar as he’s talking about their future together.

Maybe it is a little like TV, though, Dean thinks. Maybe there’s a moral here. Something he can learn.

He wants to ask them to stay and help, but not as much as he wants to ask: How do you make this work? How do you get over your fear and your shame and your guilt and end up like this? How do you convince someone you love them without saying it?

In the end, he doesn’t ask anything at all. He just sits in his car and watches them go. Ride off into the sunset. Their made-for-TV happily ever after.

Dean isn’t going to get a picture perfect ending. He’s sure about that. But he also knows he could wind up with a lot less and wouldn’t feel like he was settling.

He doesn’t need to fly to be happy. He just needs to get Cas back.

He imagines it over and over again, like he used to do with Superman when he was little. He pictures a world with Cas in it, wishes for it with everything he has, works towards it until it becomes his reality.

Dean’s name is the first thing Cas says when Lucifer is gone and he’s regained control over his own body. The low, rough sound of it is blessedly familiar after months spent listening to the strange shape Lucifer twisted Cas’ voice into.

There’s still something off about him, though. Cas isn’t looking at Dean with that piercing gaze he’s grown so accustomed to. Instead, Cas’ eyes seem a little unfocused, a little glazed over, like he’s watching something on a screen. Like there’s something separating them, even now. Dean supposes that’s to be expected, seeing as Cas just regained complete control over his own body for the first time in months. It makes sense that he might need some time to readjust. Dean can give him that. Can give him as much time as he needs.

In the meantime, Dean clings to Cas fiercely, arms around his back, fingers of one hand digging into his side, fingers of the other grasping at the hair at the back of his neck. Cas is dead weight in his arms and Dean is holding him up, and he’s so relieved that he’s all right that he doesn’t care that Cas isn’t hugging him back. Time. He’ll give him time.

“You idiot,” Dean says, voice catching. “We were--” He cuts off the cop-out. He grits his teeth against the heat behind his eyes, the tightness in his throat. “I was so worried. You goddamn idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, murmuring against Dean’s neck.

He hates this, that Cas feels like he has to apologize for something he did because he was trying to help. Because he just wanted to make things easier for Sam and Dean. He doesn’t want Cas to apologize. He doesn’t care that this made things harder. He just wants Cas to be okay. He wants Cas to know that this is what Dean wants, even though he doesn’t know how to articulate it. Even though he’s run through the script in his head hundreds of times but still can’t manage to make his mouth form the words.

“Sorry,” Cas says again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, because it’s all he can manage right now past the lump in his throat. He squeezes Cas a little tighter. “Don’t apologize. It’s all right.”

He’s still repeating quiet reassurances when Sam makes his way over. “You okay?” Sam asks, meaning _Are both of you okay?_

“Yeah,” Dean says, even though he doesn’t know if it’s true. At least not yet. To Cas, he says, “Let’s go home.” He says it with his face pressed against the side of Cas’ head, his mouth by his ear. He wants Cas to understand this, that the bunker is his home, if he wants it. That he’s always welcome there.

“Help me get him up,” Dean says as he finally loosens his grip, and together he and Sam pull Cas to his feet. He leans heavily on them, unable to support his own weight.

“I’m so sorry,” Cas says, and he sounds so goddamn unhappy that Dean’s chest seizes up again.

Dean wants to say he’s happy to do this for him, that he would have been happy to do this before Cas said yes. Would always have been willing to help shoulder the burden of saving the world. But if this is all he can do right now, he’ll take it.

“Stop,” Dean says instead, tightening his grip on Cas’ waist as he helps drag him to the car. “It’s okay. I mean it. Please stop saying that.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, after that. He lets himself be dragged to the Impala and deposited inside, and then he sits in the back seat in silence.

“You want me to drive?” Sam asks, glancing at Cas and his slumped shoulders, his blank gaze.

Dean understands the implication there, the offer, and he wants to take him up on it, but not as much as he wants to be behind the wheel. Not as much as he wants to be the one to make sure Cas and Sam both get home safe. There will be plenty of time for him to sit with Cas once they get back to the bunker. He intends to make sure of that. To not let him slip away again.

“Nah,” Dean says. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Sam says, opening the passenger door. “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Sam drops the subject, after that, but even so, Dean can’t help looking at Cas in the rearview mirror, trying to catch his eye and never quite managing it.

“You okay?” Dean asks, eventually, hoping Cas will finally look up at him.

“I’m fine,” Cas says, and instead of looking up, he lies down in the back seat.

Dean tries not to overthink it. He supposes even an angel would need rest after that ordeal. Maybe Cas just needs to sleep this off.

That’s how this would work if their life was a TV show. They would save the world and then everything would be okay. They would all be okay.

“He’ll be all right,” Sam says, voice low but sure, like he knows something Dean doesn’t.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, even though he doesn’t.

“You want some help setting up the spare room for him when we get back?” Sam asks.

Dean shifts in his seat. He glances in the rearview mirror, watching Cas as he dozes off in the back seat. He’s already thought about it -- thought about how much he doesn’t want to let Cas out of his sight until he’s sure he isn’t going to do something stupid again. Until he’s sure he isn’t going to disappear.

“Nah,” he says, “I’ll take care of it.” _Of him,_ he thinks. He hopes.

Cas is still asleep when they finally pull into the bunker. Dean lets Sam grab most of the bags as he gently tries to shake Cas awake.

“Hey,” Dean says, hand on Cas’ shoulder. Cas opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at Dean blearily. Cas is still looking at him like his gaze is focused on a point behind Dean’s head, like he’s seeing right through him. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

Cas nods, so Dean helps him up out of the back seat, pulls his arm over his shoulder to help support his weight. He grabs his duffel with his free hand and leads Cas down the stairs from the garage and into the bunker.

“Where are you going to put me?” Cas asks, quiet and resigned, as Dean sets his bag down on the library table.

“Put you?” Dean says, confused, but even as the words leave his mouth, he realizes what Cas is actually asking.

Dean thinks of every mistake he’s made with Cas, every action or inaction that has said, loud and clear: This is temporary. He thinks of Cas sitting not so far from this very spot, so happy to be there, and Dean, telling him he has to leave. He thinks of Cas with a curse working its way deeper and deeper into his system, and all Dean had given him was a chair, a blanket, a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He thinks of the people they have brought into this bunker and put somewhere, of the chains and sigils, of the dungeon that sits empty somewhere below where they’re standing.

This is what Cas is thinking, Dean realizes. That Dean is going to find some place to keep him out of the way, to keep him from causing any trouble.

He doesn’t want to keep Cas out of the way. He wants, desperately, to pull Cas to him, to hold him close, to run his fingers through his hair, press his face into the space between Cas’ neck and shoulder and breathe him in. He wants to grab him and never let him go. He wants to tell him--

But he can’t do any of that right now, because in the state Cas is in, Dean is pretty sure he’d just let Dean do whatever he wants. The thought makes his stomach turn. He’s pretty sure he’d be doing all of that for his own sake, anyway, and not for Cas’.

Shame burns in the back of Dean’s throat, but he bites it back, bites back the anger at himself, and forces himself to speak, to let Cas know he isn’t going to be repeating the same tired story of the past seven years.

“We’re…” he starts, haltingly. “We’re not _putting_ you anywhere, Cas. You’re coming with me. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Oh,” Cas says. His response is offhand, distracted, the same automatic sort of reply Dean is used to getting from Sam when he’s engrossed in watching some show. Cas responds like he doesn’t mean it. Like he didn’t even really hear what Dean said.

Dean will show him, then. He lets Cas lean on him and leads him out of the room, down the hallway, through a doorway into his room. It’s only after he helps Cas down onto the bed that he looks around as though confused. But at least he’s looking, Dean thinks.

“Why are we in your room?” Cas asks.

Dean breathes out a laugh that’s somewhere between incredulous and hysterical. He wants to address everything that’s wrong with that question, with the assumptions Cas is still making, but he’s too tired. He tries to reassure himself with the thought that at least Cas is engaged on some level, even if it’s to doubt his own right to be here.

Dean is wondering how badly he fucked up, that Cas still thinks that even when Dean is actively trying to show him the exact opposite.

He’s so fucking tired.

“I need to sleep, man,” Dean says. “I’m beat. And you don’t look like you’re doing much better.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Okay.”

Dean sighs internally as he hunches down in front of Cas to tug on the lapel of his coat. He says, “Let’s get you out of these clothes, okay?”

“All right,” Cas says. He starts trying to slip out of his jacket, but the sleeve gets caught on his elbow.

More than anything, Cas looks lost -- in Dean’s room, in his clothes, in his body.

“Let me help you,” Dean says, and by the time Cas manages to say “Okay,” Dean is already sliding Cas’ coat down his arms. Cas is unresisting as Dean helps him out of one piece of clothing after another, occasionally steadying him when he sways in place.

Dean leaves Cas’ clothes in a heap on the floor and goes to rummage through his drawers for something else for him to wear, something that says _home_ a little more than bloodstained clothes still largely borrowed. He picks out a loose pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hesitating only a moment before moving back to the bed to help Cas pull them on.

When Dean is done, he stands in front of Cas, a hand still on his shoulder to steady him. “I gotta get changed,” he says. “Go ahead and lie down.”

Cas frowns. He says, “Lie down where?”

Dean rolls his eyes. He wants to pretend this is just Cas’ usual sort of misunderstanding and not the result of the fact that they’re both reading off of completely different scripts. “The bed, Cas,” he says. He is practically desperate for Cas to understand without him having to explain, to somehow flip the page and pick up the thread of what Dean is trying to show him.

Cas is still frowning. Dean says, “Jesus. Just lie down.” He hopes it doesn’t come out sounding as much like a plea as it feels.

To his relief, Cas folds back the covers and slides under them, pulls them up to his chin obediently before shifting onto his side. Dean scrubs his hand over his face and takes a steadying breath before shucking off his own clothes and trading them for pajamas. When he turns around, he finds Cas looking up at him from the bed.

He hesitates, then. Wonders if this is the best time to be trying to cross this bridge.

He decides there isn’t ever going to be a good time. He figures the best thing he can do is ask. He says, “I’m gonna lay next to you, okay?”

Cas says, “It’s your bed.”

“That’s not--” Dean starts, then stops. He sighs. He drags both hands through his hair, closes his eyes. Tries to convince himself that he can do this. That if he just tries a little harder, does a little better, he can fix this. Can start undoing whatever it was Lucifer did to Cas. Can start undoing all the things Dean did to him before Lucifer was ever part of the picture.

He is trying to remember every look Cas gave him over the years, fond and hopeful and yearning, all those looks when his eyes were clear but Dean always stopped himself from taking that last step. He is trying to teach himself a lesson.

“Okay,” Dean says, steeling his resolve. “Okay.”

Dean turns off the light before walking around to the other side of the bed and settling onto the mattress. He falls asleep lying next to Cas but not touching him -- close enough that Cas will be able to tell he’s there, but not close enough that he thinks Dean expects anything from him.

Dean wakes sometime in the middle of the night to find Cas shifting restlessly in his sleep. He props himself up on one elbow, and in the dim light filtering in from the hallway, he can see the way Cas’ shoulders are tense, the way his hands are clenching and unclenching in the sheets. He’s making small, pained noises that sound far too loud in the quiet room.

Maybe it’s the late hour, the middle-of-the-night unreality, that lets him do it, or maybe it’s just exhaustion -- from lack of sleep, from months spent going toe to toe with literal gods, from several years’ worth of effort expended trying to stay a respectable distance from Cas -- whatever it is, it gives him the courage to lie down with his chest pressed against Cas’ back and wrap an arm around his waist.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into Cas’ hair. “It’s over now. You’re okay.”

Cas quiets down, muscles relaxing as he shifts into Dean in his sleep. Dean falls back asleep like that, with Cas a solid weight in his arms.

He wakes to Cas shaking, his breath catching over and over, and he realizes with dawning horror that Cas is crying. He doesn’t know how to handle this, exactly. It’s unprecedented. He at once wants to know what’s wrong and fears that he already knows the answer.

Dean inhales deeply, and then he says, “Cas? You all right?”

Cas doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

“Hey,” Dean says. He shifts away slightly so he can move his hand to Cas’ arm, tugging gently to urge him to roll over and face him.

Cas looks at him, this time, and there’s the look Dean remembers; there’s Cas, fond and hopeful and yearning, even through his tears.

Dean settles down next to Cas, their faces inches apart on the pillow. He slides an arm under and around Cas’ waist, pulling him close, and lifts the other to his face. He brushes Cas’ hair away from his forehead. He brushes his thumb under Cas’ eye, across his cheekbone.

“You’re crying,” Dean says.

Cas reaches his hand up, places it over Dean’s where it still rests on the side of his face. “I’m okay,” Cas says.

He sounds like he means it, but there’s still part of Dean that’s waiting for this to go wrong. That’s telling him he can’t fly, and when he hits the ground, this time, he’s going to break something irreparably. He says, “You sure?”

Cas doesn’t respond right away. He closes his eyes as though he's actually thinking about it. Taking stock of himself so that whatever answer he gives will be the truth.

Cas nods.

“Okay,” Dean says. “I’m glad.”

Dean shifts again, moves even closer so that their foreheads are pressed together. He closes his eyes. He tries not to feel like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice. Instead, he focuses on the feel of Cas’ cheek under his hand, of Cas’ hand over his own. He thinks of Cesar and Jesse, standing together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean says, and for a few seconds, he feels like he’s falling.

But then Cas is smiling, holding him tighter, moving in closer.

Dean hits the ground running.


End file.
